Please Proceed to the Nearest Exit

by Jessica Raya

  “My dad used to spray our whole house down with a garden hose,” I said.

  “I thought only crackpots did that.”

  “That’s what my mom said. She’d say, ‘How about if you just spray down your half?’ ” I started laughing, then I couldn’t stop. I was laughing so hard my heart hurt.

  “That’s enough for you, Amelia Earhart. Maybe I should take you home.”

  When I shook my head, my brain sloshed around inside my skull. “Don’t harsh my buzz,” I said.

  My fingertips were tingling. My ears were getting hot. I could see the scent of ash and motor oil and taste Jamie’s apple shampoo. I could feel him start to smile at something. I could smell his smile. I could hear his dimple. That dimple was calling out to me. I’m not really a dimple, it said. I’m a button. I reached out and pressed it.

  “Robin,” he said. The dimple was gone. I had wrecked it. Jamie licked his fingers and put out the joint, tucked it into the pocket of his jean jacket. He pushed himself off the hood of the car.

  I followed him across the highway to the road cut. When I stood beside him, he put his hands on the rock, read it with his palms. His fingernails were clean and trim. I wondered how he kept them like that, moving bricks around all day.

  “These lines are made by the shifts in the earth,” he said. “Cutting into this rock is like cutting into a person and seeing everything that’s happened to them.”

  “Like the rings in the redwoods,” I said.

  “Yeah. Just like that.”

  My head was swimming. I put a hand on the rock to steady myself. A piece crumbled off in my hand. Everything was falling apart.

  “We should go there,” I said. “To the redwoods. I’ve never seen them. We should go there right now, before they’re gone too.”

  Jamie shook his head. “It’s too late.”

  “We can drive all night,” I said. “We can take turns. I failed the test, but I know how.”

  He shook his head again. I leaned in and kissed him. His mouth was warm. I wanted to climb inside it and take a nap. I wanted to disappear inside that kiss. Jamie put his hands on my shoulders. I thought he was pulling me closer, but he was pushing me away.

  “What the hell?” he said.

  “Did I do it wrong?”

  “Your timing sure is crap, you know that?” Jamie shoved his hands into his jean pockets. He didn’t say anything for a long time. It was starting to freak me out.

  “Why did you quit your job?” I said.

  “I told you,” he said. “I’m going to Vietnam.”

  “What?” I said. “What?”

  “I couldn’t stand waiting around doing nothing. Guys are dying over there, Robin. Kids my age.”

  “Some of us are dying right here too,” I said.

  Jamie shook his head. “I shouldn’t have left you there that night. I should’ve broken the fucking door down.”

  I could hear my heart thumping inside my chest. It sounded like someone pounding on a door. Like footsteps on carpet, back and forth. Like a clock ticking. I put my hands over my ears, but it didn’t help. Cars slowed as they passed us. Cars sped by. Time was spinning, rushing backwards, peeling away the layers of rock. I started crying. It was different from laughing. Crying hurt in a whole new way.

  I ran into the road, flapping my arms at the cars. An old lady stopped and rolled down her window. “Are you okay? Did that boy do something?” I meant to shake my head, but I nodded instead. “It’s not their fault,” she said as I got in her car. “They’re just made that way.”

  Jamie shouted my name as we drove away. Tears were Hope-sliding down my face. I covered my ears again and said the words in my head over and over so I’d know they were true. He’s going to Vietnam. He’s going to Vietnam.

  He was the third boy I’d ever kissed.

  —

  The old lady drove with both feet. My whole life felt like that car ride. Stop, start, stop, start. She insisted on taking me all the way home. It was the Christian thing to do, she said. By the time we got to Carol’s house, I wasn’t high anymore, just nauseous.

  Carol’s little brother was in the front yard, pretending to water the flowerbed with a red jerry can. I sat on the grass and watched. I wanted to lie down and sleep, but I’d promised Mr. Galpin I’d look after his canary.

  Carol’s brother tugged on my sleeve. “Knock, knock,” he said.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Orange you glad,” he said and fell on the ground, laughing. I leaned over and ruffled the little guy’s hair. Having a brother wouldn’t have been so bad, I thought.

  The front door opened. Mrs. Closter was dusted with flour. There were marks on her forehead where she’d wiped at it, ghostly fingerprints on her dark green blouse. “Carol’s not feeling well,” she said.

  “I have something to give her. For school.”

  Mrs. Closter studied me for a minute. I was covered in grass clippings and ash. I didn’t even have my book bag. Then I remembered the flyer crumpled up in my back pocket. I held it out. Mrs. Closter read it and sighed. “All right, dear,” she said. “Just, please, take off your shoes.”

  Carol was lying diagonally across her purple bedspread with her face mashed in Stuffed Jesus. She wasn’t wearing a hat, and the lamp cast a small ring of light on her strawberry-blond curls. Otherwise, the room was dark. She lifted her head and sniffled. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes and nose were pink from crying, but the rest of her face was as pale and puffy as uncooked dough.

  “I came to see if you were okay. You haven’t been to school.”

  “I hate that place. I hate this whole stupid town. Nobody even cares whether I live or die.”

  “That’s not true. I care.”

  “Why should you? I’m a big, stupid joke. Everyone laughs at me because I’m a joke. God’s probably up there laughing too. Ha ha ha ha ha!”

  “You’re not a joke, Carol. Don’t say that.”

  “I didn’t save a single baby. Not even Melanie’s. I can’t do anything.”

  “My mom says the war will probably end for real soon,” I said. “At least they’ll stop killing babies in Vietnam.”

  “Who cares about gook babies?” she said.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  She took a tissue from the box on her nightstand and sat up to blow her nose. “I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to do something, but what is it?”

  “You could do this,” I said, holding out the rumpled flyer. If it would make Carol stop crying, I’d get up on that stage and recite a prayer myself.

  Carol took the flyer, hugging Stuffed Jesus as she read. She studied me suspiciously. “You know, sometimes you’re so stupid I want to scream.”

  “And sometimes you’re so mean I want to punch you in the nose.”

  Her eyes widened. Her mouth made its little o. Then she laughed.

  “You really are horrible sometimes,” I said.

  She stopped laughing and blew her nose again. “I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like that. You’re the only person I can even stand to talk to.” She grabbed my arm with both hands and tugged me down beside her on the bed. “Don’t go yet, okay? You can hold Stuffed Jesus.”

  She moved over to make room for me. I wanted to go home, but more than that I wanted to sleep. I’d never felt so tired in my life. I had to sit down just to keep myself from falling. Stuffed Jesus was damp.

  “Do you know why we moved here?” Carol said.

  I shook my head. It was full of ash.

  “I was called, Robin.”

  “Called,” I repeated. I thought she meant on the telephone. I imagined Governor Reagan ringing her up, saying, “We need you in California, Carol. We’ve got a real situation down here.” My body was so heavy, I sank into the mattress. I was practically on the floor.

  “By God,” she said. “I was called by God.”

  “Right,” I said and closed my eyes. Just for a minute, then I’d
go.

  “Nothing’s turning out the way it’s supposed to,” she said.

  “It never does.”

  I heard the crinkle of paper being smoothed, a nose being blown. Then Carol snuggled up against me, small and warm. “You smell funny,” she said as I floated away.

  I dreamed of birds, hundreds of them, thousands, their wings tickling me everywhere, my arms, my face, the world a bright flurry of yellow. I reached up and tried to catch them. They stretched and darkened, whirring around me, thickening the air until the sun was gone and the sky was black with wings. I was buried under them, under the ground, inside the earth. I covered my face. My hands were wings.

  A buzzer sounded. The birds scattered like buckshot. When I opened my eyes, Carol and I were coiled around each other, arms and legs entwined. Her hair was in my mouth, her thumb in hers.

  Stuffed Jesus was on the floor. I lifted her arms off me and nestled him in beside her. Then I stood in the doorway for a minute and watched her sleep. She seemed so delicate lying there, like something you put on the top of a Christmas tree. It was hard to believe so much hurt and sadness could fit into such a little body. But bodies are good at keeping secrets, especially from themselves. I turned out the light and shut the door.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Closter said when she saw me. “You’re still here.”

  “Carol fell asleep.”

  “Will you be joining us for dinner, dear?” It didn’t sound like an invitation. The oven timer was still ringing behind her. Mrs. Closter frowned, sniffing the air. “The biscuits!”

  She leapt at the oven door and yanked out the tray. A dozen hockey pucks flew across the room. Mrs. Closter sunk to her knees on the linoleum and started to cry.

  “You can scrape that black right off,” I said. “My mom does it all the time.”

  Carol’s little brother pulled on my sleeve. “I wish you were my sister. Carol’s the meanest person in the whole entire world.”

  “Don’t talk that way about your sister,” Mrs. Closter said, sniffling into her apron.

  “She’s not my sister!” he yelled and stormed out of the room. “I’m a Martian! I’m from outer space!”

  I remembered when Carol had told him that. He seemed happy about it now, anyway.

  “Mrs. Closter? Why did you move to Golden?”

  She glanced up through the smoke, head tilted in that June Cleaver way I loved, red eyes glistening. The timer was still ringing. “Mr. Closter was transferred, dear. Why do you ask?”

  The Buick was in the driveway when I got home, but there was no Cardboard George on the lawn. Mom had conceded the territory, but not the principle. Now Cardboard George smiled at me from behind every window, where he would stay until Election Day. “Your mother finally found the perfect man.” Vera had told me. “He couldn’t leave if he wanted to.”

  My plan to stay in bed forever was looking pretty good again. I definitely didn’t want to be awake for any more of this day. When I reached my room, Mom was sitting on my bed with my shoebox in her lap.

  “I’d like to talk to you about this calmly,” she said. “Like adults.” The line was thick between her eyes.

  “You went through my stuff?”

  “I bought you a dress for George’s reception, and I wanted to make sure you had the right shoes.” She spoke slowly, measuring her words. “I thought these might be pumps.”

  The dress was hanging on my closet door, a length of navy under a plastic sheath.

  “I’m not going to the reception,” I said.

  “What do you mean you’re not going? Of course you’re going.”

  “They’re not going to end the war, Mom. They’re lying. Nixon’s lying. McGovern’s lying. You said it yourself—they’re all a bunch of con men. Boys are dying and nobody’s doing anything. Now we’re supposed to ham it up for the cameras? You go right ahead. Be my guest. But I’m not going to be part of their circus act.”

  “You’re sixteen. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know how the world works yet. I’m thirty-six and I barely know.”

  “That’s obvious,” I said.

  Mom raised an eyebrow to let me know parental guilt wasn’t going to save me this time. “You want to talk about lying, young lady? Tell me about this.” She gestured with the shoebox, rattling the lighters. “I’m listening. I’m all ears. I’d really like to hear what you have to say.”

  “Why start now?”

  She looked me over, stopping to frown at my feet. I’d forgotten my shoes at the Closters’.

  “Where are your shoes?” she said. “Why are you always losing your shoes? What’s going on here? Oh, God. Are you doing drugs? Robin, are you on the pot?”

  I tried, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

  “You think this is funny? Because I don’t think this is funny. First, I get a call from your vice-principal—”

  “Mr. Galpin called? What did you say?”

  I could feel the tears pressing at the backs of my eyes. That’s why Mr. Galpin was so nice to me. Carol was just an excuse. I was the freak he was worried about. I took a deep breath and sat on my chair. My knees almost hit my chin. It was a child’s chair and too small for me now, but at least I had one. Nobody had hauled it to the curb when I wasn’t looking.

  “I told him we had everything under control,” Mom said. “But we don’t, do we?”

  I shook my head slowly. At least that was working again.

  “I’m worried about you, honey. This isn’t about the campaign or volunteering at the hospital. You don’t want to do that? Fine. Maybe you’re a Republican now. Terrific. School isn’t your strong suit? That’s okay. That’s not the end of the world. What’s not okay is you floating along, not caring about anything. If you don’t decide for yourself what you want, other people will decide for you. Life will decide for you. I was like that when I was young, and I think that had a lot to do with how things turned out. If I’d cared about something—I mean, really cared—things might have been very different. Do you hear what I’m saying, Robin? You’ve got to decide for yourself who you want to be. You’re not a child anymore.”

  I turned to the window, wondering when that had happened and why hadn’t anyone told me.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your life,” I said.

  “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

  I could feel the tears coming again. “I ruined everything.”

  “Oh,” she said softly and reached out to touch my knee. She still wore her wedding ring. She didn’t soak it in Alka-Seltzer every week like she used to, but the diamonds glittered all the same. “Is this about a boy?” she said. “Is that it? Is there a boy?”

  “There’s no boy,” I said. “Why does it always have to be a boy?”

  “Then what? Tell me.”

  I shook my head. Where would I start? Troy? The fire? She didn’t even know who Carol was. I’d kept so many things hidden for so long, it was easier to leave them that way. If I were a canary, we’d be in real trouble.

  “I’m just tired,” I said. “I won’t smoke anymore.”

  “All right, then.”

  We sat in silence. There was nothing else to do. The silence crystallized between us, solid as that diamond ring.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  She patted my knee and stood up, taking my shoebox of lighters with her. I heard the front door open and watched through the window as she walked to the garbage can sitting empty at the curb. She stood there for a while, garbage can lid in one hand, shoebox in the other. Ash swirled around her as she tipped the box into the can. Did she see her own silver lighter among them? If so, she didn’t let it show. The lighters rained down like cupcake sprinkles, pink, white, yellow, blue.

  I told myself that this was it. The half-empty Bic in my pocket would be my last. There was nothing left to burn, anyway. I was actually feeling pretty good about it until I put my hand in my pocket and found nothing but lint. Mom tossed the empty box in the
garbage can and put the lid back on. Cardboard George smiled at everyone, pleased, as always, with the way things were turning out.

  18

  We communicated through notes. Please water the ferns. We’re running low on milk. Have a nice day. It wasn’t that we were too angry to talk. We just weren’t sure how to start.

  Then Mom slid the newspaper across the table one morning. She stood at the kitchen window and lit a cigarette as I read. There was Governor Reagan on the front page, outfitted in state-of-the-art protective gear and surrounded by the brave men of the Golden Fire Department. Wildfires, it turned out, are a very good publicity op. Politicians were shaking hands with firemen all over the state that fall.

  “McGovern isn’t coming,” Mom said. “There’s no competing with a Republican in a fireman’s hat.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Well, anyway, you’re off the hook. No more circus.” She stared out at the driveway for a while, forgetting to smoke. Ash collected at the end of her cigarette, a long, grey finger pointing at the dirty dishes. “At least I kept the receipt for that dress.”

  When Vera Miller realized she wasn’t going to meet the next president of the United States, she promptly abandoned McGovern’s divorced women’s club for an actual divorced women’s club held twice a week in the basement of a woman named Trish. She’d been disappointed by enough Republican men. She didn’t need to add a whole other political party to the list. But Mom wouldn’t give up. She went door to door. She made her calls. She stuck George’s smiling face in the Buick’s back window and drove him around town.

  A short typewritten letter came a week later from the real George McGovern. It thanked Mom for her contribution and asked her to keep up their important work. Citizens like her were the hope for America, he wrote. He couldn’t do it without her. “It’s a form letter,” she said. “Everybody got one.” And then, “Do you think the signature’s real?”

  She held the letter close to her face to scrutinize the handwriting, and in that moment I saw her at some future date, in bifocals with frizzy blue hair, clipping newspaper articles about pension reform and bursitis. I saw her all alone in this house, cats twining her slippered feet, the sole member of her own not-quite-divorced women’s club.